


and we can't stop

by x (ordinary)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (which is M!Lavellan/Cullen), Abusive Relationships, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Collars, Ficlet, Gags, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Masochism, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/pseuds/x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor Varen asks Cullen if there's anything he can do to help. But the day's been long, and Samson awaits him in the loft above.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we can't stop

**Author's Note:**

> prompt ficlet (“Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”) fill that got out of hand for inquisitor-tohru on tumblr. 
> 
> relevant info:  
> \- samson was captured earlier than he is in canon, cut out of his armor (red crystal n all), is helping to take down corpyheus.  
> \- cullen’s been charged with keeping him in line, and the relationship they have is unkind (read: abusive in no uncertain terms).  
> \- samson is slowly being weaned off red lyrium entirely. he’s about 75% there, thus the freedom to move about.  
> \- cullen is not a nice guy, but neither is samson; they both have Issues and are bad for each other.

From the loft, Samson can hear the awkward rebuff coming from a mile away. The Inquisitor Varen has always been so hopeful, but the Inquisitor is both a mage and a man, and at least one of those things is a deal breaker, these days. 

He stares up at the night sky, but behind his eyelids are gold eyes, limpid and pleading.

“Cullen,” the elf starts, and he wrings his hands in a way that’s nearly audible, “Do you..well..I mean…” A hitch of breath. A rustle of papers, and two pairs of boots scuffling on the wood.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen breathes, a pain in his voice. “I’m sorry, my friend, but you know that is not–”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Varen pleads, “I could give you a massage? No strings, I know that you do not…feel the same away. But without the lyrium…”

Heartbreak so thick Samson can taste it on his tongue, but he stays quiet.

The gag makes sure of that.

 Cullen sighs, heavy. “I…appreciate your concern, Inquisitor. Truly. But it is late, and you know that I ache. I must beg that you leave me be.”

It’s the Inquisitor’s turn. “So be it. But if there is– if there is anything I can do. You’ll…let me know?”

The nod is silent, save for the rustling of skin against Cullen’s furred mantle. “Good night, Inquisitor. I will see you on the morrow.”

The door shuts and the bolt follows, and still Cullen makes him wait. Work came first, after all, and he’d been rudely interrupted.

Well, Cullen wouldn’t call it rude, but  _it was true_. The Inquisitor knew Cullen’s answer, and yet he couldn’t keep his pathetic mabari pup pining to himself. With his sad eyes and drooping ears and stinking of magic, of lyrium, of a hope not yet realized.

Cullen hasn’t yet figured it out, but he still thinks of the guy as a symbol, something ethereal and clean, not some elf that has no family left to speak of. Samson sees it and has no intention of sharing.

He shifts on the bed, ropes against his skin rubbing his wrists raw. Not bloody yet, though, although that might very well change before the night’s done. Samson grins up at the night, at the expanse of blue-velvet black stretched out above the broken rafters. The moon is nothing more than a sliver, and the breeze is cool against his bare, feverish skin. 

The sound of Cullen on the ladder startles him out of the daze, and cool fingers slide against his throat, running along the seam of leather there, pulled taut. 

“You were surprisingly good,” he says, lightly. It belies the fury in him, the betrayal and the frustration just simmering below the surface. Cullen’s teeth gleam under the moonlight, weak as it is, and he hooks a gloved finger beneath the collar, enough to make it hard to breathe.

With his other, he undoes the knot of the gag, letting it fall free of crooked teeth. 

“Yeah, well,” Samson says, his words low and gravelly, arms flexing in their bonds. “Didn’t have much of a choice now, did I, Rutherford?”

(It would be easy to give in. It would be easy to behave at all times, rather than just when convenient. Cullen would come to forgive him, and perhaps therein lies the dilemma. People like him don’t deserve absolution.)

Cullen’s eyes run cold, and Samson can hear the gritting of his teeth. The pressure against the collar dissipates as he grabs for Samson’s jaw instead, gripping it too-tight, tight enough to bruise (again), tight enough for him to loose a snarl unbidden. 

“I have to retract that statement, now. Which is what you wanted, I quite imagine.” Cullen’s weight dips the bed, and that fury in his veins, sharp around the edges but blunted in good company, rears its ugly head.

Samson laughs, low and easy. “What, you think just because you dress me up like a dog that I’m going to act like one?” 

(That’s precisely what he thinks. The worst of it is that he’s not wrong, either.)

His forehead is sweat-slick and feverish.They both know he needs the lyrium in his pocket, and from this close up, Samson can smell the vial of it. That life-giving sanguine liquid, a habit he’s doomed to never be able to kick. It’s cut with the pure stuff. 

(The weaning process is slow and painful and Cullen looks at it with such longing, sometimes.)

Cullen holds it out and uncorks it, holding it above Samson’s mouth, even though he’s craning his neck up to get close to it, jaws snapping like a rabid animal’s. 

“Yes,” Samson hears, but his focus has snapped to the lyrium, and even Cullen’s heat is nothing in comparison to what he knows he could get, if he could just get that liquid to splash against his tongue–

(It’s only bad when it’s around. He gets fed like a clock winding down, dosages spreading further and further apart. But when it’s there–)

“ _Rutherford_ ,” Samson snaps, a whine in his voice, frustration mounting. He refuses to beg. 

Cullen shakes his head and pulls it away, eyes dark. He can be patient, in this. 

They have all night, after all.


End file.
